Seunghoon silently gets up.

Whispers and almost inaudible goodbye.

Kisses the sleeping figure’s forehead.

And softly pads out of his beloved’s room.

That is always the beginning of his nightly routine that he fell into months ago, where he would then proceed to deftly coat on his favourite jacket and slip on his dance-worn sneakers, nod at the half-awake manager planning out the busy schedule for tomorrow, and step out of the messy, boy-smelling dorm.

He would then proceed to walk down the empty 3.00am streets of Seoul, pass by the still half-lit YG artiste building, and disappear into another 7-storey apartment building just down the road. He would outdo himself by taking the stairs and disdaining at the broken lift, reaching his private haven at the top.

He would then lower the speed of his heart, breathing in the season’s air, musky and humid, cold and wilting, chilly and frosting, light and ghostly, it didn’t matter. When it rained, he would retract into the small penthouse in the corner, where he had spent most of his days, mixing tapes and smoothening up the routine for the monthly assessment.

In all honesty, he detested the studios. He felt so enclosed, so trapped, that he felt that he couldn’t breathe. He felt the most comfortable here, at this tiny rooftop, where he could see his dream and remind himself that with all his efforts, he would make it. It was half the reason of all his efforts, this apartment rooftop with green matting, where he could feel freedom and simple happiness whilst staring at the tip of the YG building, his dream.

The other half, of course, consisted of Kang Seungyoon. Their leader had quietly and unknowingly gripped his heartstrings with a vice, despite him always being an icicle and only giving the smallest chuckles at his jokes. In fact, he was sure that their leader had been so discreet, he didn’t know till he found himself in the toilet, all soiled cheeks and salty tears, ‘he loves Taehyun’ running and pounding into his fatigued and already stressed mind.

It was not an unknown fact that Nam Taehyun was a horrible lover. When they came out to their small group of five, Seunghoon had to cut the strangled sob mid-way through his throat, let out a muffled ‘congratulations’ and sprinted to the toilet before any of them noticed a thing. The nights later consisted of clashing china against cement, a drunk against sober argument, and a sobbing-to-sleep-in-his-arms Seungyoon, where Seunghoon would then clean up with his manager.

It wasn’t to his relief when they broke it off four months later, because he knew Seungyoon too well. He would never get over the playboy that was Nam Taehyun, and neither would the scars he left on his heart heal.

But he settled with the best.

If Seungyoon’s broken heart was the best Seunghoon would get, he wasn’t going to complain. Unlike what people thought, he wasn’t stingy on terms of the heart. He unconsciously still chipped when he heard his dear leader’s tears when he thought he was sleeping, yes, but that couldn’t be helped, because Seungyoon only thought of him as a replacement for Taehyun.

Of course he knew. He knew him too well.

One night, he found everything so stifling, that he found himself mindlessly stumbling back to his old apartment, where everything complicated hadn’t happened, when he was just a young adolescent dreaming about a big stage. He finally snapped and found himself blotting the droplets in his palms, cross-legged on the ground, face-up to the polluted city sky. He texted his manager, telling him that he would be spending the night at the penthouse, and to come and wake him before the others did, and thus started the daily cycle of his insomnia.

Perhaps that was why he now lay back-down on the small apartment roof, thinking about his so-called beloved and all the complications. He just wished that he could close his eyes and stare into the void of black, forget everything about his hopeless love.

Perhaps it was just the wish to fall asleep-

Knowing that all the problems would be resolved if he simply did not wake up.